Upon returning from his trip, Panos
wrote:
Only a few hours after my flight back to London, and the tears won't stop flowing. I have tasted the pain, I have touched it with my hands, I felt it with my heart, and now it lives inside me, it has pierced my heart and a part of it will never leave Tohoku. Every face has a story of survival, a story of life and death, of the tsunami, the sight of the destruction, the sounds, the sirens, the missing friends, it is all engraved in the faces. A face of an old fisherman that lost everything, a volunteer that helps others after losing her home and her father, a 10-year old child with the eyes of a grown man. The freezing black water sweeps away everything like a devil, as a student wrote, swallowing everything in its path, indiscriminate, destroying lives, creating wounds, stealing livelihoods.
I wish I could choose one moment from this project and crown it, but there are so many. Playing with 100 middle school students a piano concerto, in a huge concert hall was a very special start. I had the chance to rehearse with them, more than six hours over two days. I could see how hard they were trying, how they were improving, how they were nervous, It was an inspiration to talk to them about the difference of rehearsing and performing, about the opportunity to speak their emotions through music, and to see them responding by discovering expression. I thanked the 13 year old oboe player in particular, who had learned her part by heart, and asked to take a photo with me -- I don't think I ever saw someone run so quickly to get their instrument, or smile so brightly. Then meeting the children in Soma and Minamisoma, the towns right next to the nuclear disaster, students that are not allowed to go out an play, "the children from Fukushima" who are excluded from the whole world, discriminated by others. They were keen to play music for us, with their brass bands, sing to us songs about the hope tomorrow. The kindergarten students gave us paper hand-made medals to thank us, the middle school children sang in a choir. Then the middle school children sent us a letter with the most vivid description of the tsunami -- the devil that covered everything in its pass. And there was also an elementary school, where the principal teaches the remaining seven students the importance of being strong, in order to be able to help and support others. Spending time in the exclusion zone of Fukushima, closed to the outside world for the next 30 years, felt like stepping on grave stones. Time stopped, the town became a shadow of a memory. Everything is unchanged, as if someone pressed "pause", everything left behind untouched, and everything is still there: the visitors book in the Buddhist monastery, with the last log entry on 11.3.2011.
But it is not just the children. "Be strong Ishinomaki" is the message in a memorial in the middle of the devastated area, the space donated to the city by a woman that lost her shop. I will never forget the gentleman in the Minamisoma Hospital, the front line for measuring the effect of radiation on people, that asked his nurse to move his wheelchair closer, and tried to speak, to say something, but only tears came out, tried again, and more tears running from his eyes, wrinkles of pain scarring his face, in the end just whispering "Arigato". One more survivor. There was the lady who used to have a little toy with the music of the Nutcracker, for years in her home, everything gone in the tsunami, who started crying when she heard the music of Tchaikovsky played again. She has gone back to her destroyed home, repaired it, and became in charge of a community centre, handing out more than 300 meals at the height of the crisis. There was the concert in one of the temporary housings, when everyone in the audience was crying at the music of Sakura, desperately trying to hold back the sighs of grief in unison. Smiles and tears, without translation, without words, without language. And the local musical hope: a Yamaha piano damaged by the tsunami and repaired by the shop owner, that has become famous around the world as symbol of rebirth.
Everybody had their own unique, powerful, beautiful way of thanking us, of showing their gratitude. Yet I felt guilty accepting it, because the greatest reward was an audience ready to listen, open to receive from the music -- and I was rewarded generously. A part of me has stayed in Tohoku, aching with the wounds that are still fresh, and I have selfishly taken a part of Tohoku with me, the dignity, the generosity, the kindness, to share with the world and hope that the world will not forget.